Uncomplicated
by Pearl Gatsby
Summary: When finally it happens, the moment is blessedly uncomplicated. :: Post-Hogwarts, EWE, OS. Light on plot.


**I feel like I put a lot of energy into the way these two misunderstand each other, so I wanted to write a fic in which they're almost perfectly in tune, past all the apologies and miscommunications. This is where it went.**

**.**

The day Hermione learned she was catching feelings for her partner, she didn't imagine an easy conclusion. _No way this is going to end well_, she'd admonished herself from where she sat at her desk, hands still pressed to her face which was still aflame with her realization. There was too much history between them, a work relationship to maintain besides, and always the fact that Malfoy was perhaps the most handsome wizard she'd ever met and she was—

"_Bright_," she said the word aloud, with no small amount of irony. _Yes, a _bright_ idea, this_.

Hermione and Draco had been paired by the ministry precisely _because_ they were the unlikeliest pair to be working together. Among wizarding Britain they were recognizable faces—by the papers, Hermione had a desk job and Draco had faded out of the public eye, resurfacing only now and again to run an innocuous fundraiser. Should they appear in the same place at once, no one would have believed they were working together.

It was easy to slip back into that role, old enemies who hadn't quite grown up. But Hermione preferred the international missions, the ones where they worked more obviously together. It was easier, they'd learned, to play these missions as a couple; their subtle touches, lingering eye contact, and whispering came across as chemistry rather than espionage.

Still, Hermione hadn't improved much as an actress.

It was after their third international mission that she'd insisted on staying behind in her office rather than allowing Draco to escort her home. They'd just spent several days sharing a hotel room with a single bed, playing at being the rich heir trying to impress his new girlfriend with his spending power. Each night when they retired, they'd been all business; but by the final day of gathering information on illegal smuggling, Hermione came to anticipate Draco's gentle touches—a hand at her elbow, a palm sliding against hers, the gentle press of fingertips at the small of her back. He was always touching her, even in the safety of hotel rooms when they weren't being watched. He neither asked for permission nor batted an eye, which left Hermione wondering if Draco had always been this touchy with friends, if she was late to a party everyone else knew full well.

She'd begun wondering what else she never knew about him, watching him with real interest. She could tell when the sparkle in his eye was put-on and when it was genuine—the man showed _real mirth_ with her, and she found herself hoping always for a glimpse of his genuine laugh, those moments when he appreciated the dry humor she threw right back at him. And tonight when, upon their early-evening return to the Ministry, she'd almost called him _dear_ and felt with a start that she _meant _it, she'd known she was doomed. It was all she could do to still the hand that was on its way to ruffling his hair.

"Very _bright_," she told herself.

**.**

Draco supposed it was best to go by a policy of "look but don't touch." And where that failed, well—"touch but don't _feel_."

He assumed this had all been some genius plan on Potter's part. He knew the statistics himself—that historically, partners who were paired not just in a work context always slipped up. Someone got caught or killed. Someone risked too much because they felt too much. Whatever the circumstances, feelings were dangerous—anything beyond the sense of _teamwork_ could jeopardize their mission. In the country, too, anything other than _simmering animosity_ was suspicious.

So Draco took what he could get—the assumption that touches between them were an act in public, were born only of trust and familiarity in private, were (in short) not significant events. Draco touched Hermione whenever he could, playing as if it was only natural—as if it was just the nature of their partnership. He found that if he didn't react—didn't tease, didn't leer, just reached for her as if she was a given—she'd respond in kind.

Each time they approached the next Portkey together, her hand would slip easily into his, preparing for the image they had to project. As they checked into hotels and restaurants, Draco crowded into her space deliberately. He loved to put his hands on her bare back—the evening gowns she chose often left exposed a vee of her smooth, creamy skin. In turn she'd snake her arms around his neck when they were dancing, place her tantalizing mouth just beside his ear to whisper something she'd just heard or seen. He loved the moments when he could reach around her, squeezing her outer hip in a show for whoever was watching. He craved her responses, the brush of her hand at invisible lint on his shoulder or the deliberate placement of a hand to his thigh where their targets could see. They played it off well.

In the hotel rooms and inns and villas they often shared a bed, something they'd accommodated to with little fuss. _Part of the job_, Hermione had shrugged, though Draco liked to think he hadn't imagined the flush on her cheeks the first time she'd crawled under the covers beside him. In the mornings they'd sometimes wake up in each other's space, but that, apparently, came with the job as well. The travel and act was exhausting, but more than once Draco had spent an early morning pressing his short fingernails deep into his palm, trying to resist the urge to reach for her waist and pull her flush against him.

Draco knew Hermione deserved far better than her former enemy. When touching her became second-nature—when they crowded into each other's space in their secret Ministry offices, reaching (rudely, as Draco was taught never to do) under each other's noses for notes on bits of parchment or huddling over a single copy of a book or else giving the other's shoulder a supportive pat or squeeze at the end of a long day—Draco reminded himself how inappropriate it was to feel anything beyond his sense of touch. _This is enough_. _This has to be enough_.

**.**

The night they are nearly compromised, Hermione wakes to Draco shaking her.

"Now or never, love," he whispers. His words are clipped, and Hermione gets his meaning right away—they have to leave. With a wave of her wand their personal effects are packed in seconds, disappearing into her purse that she keeps close on her side of the bed. Draco is busy casting other charms—other ways of confusing or complicating memories—and with a quick calculation Hermione locates within her bag the object that should currently be in use as an emergency portkey.

"Is that clock accurate?" she asks Draco, her question the only sign of her hesitation. If she's chosen the wrong item—if this _isn't_ the portkey—they'll lose precious seconds they don't have.

Before he can answer, the door to the room flies open with the light signature of a spell and Draco wraps himself around Hermione, turning her safely away from the doorway. Her fingers connect with the portkey and they land with a small _oof_ back in Harry's office in the Ministry.

"Are you hit?" is the first thing Hermione asks, trying to get out from underneath her partner.

"No. Missed," Draco replies, pushing off of the floor so as to give Hermione room to scramble out.

"Thank Merlin," Hermione says sincerely, giving him a once-over all the same as they both stand. This synchronicity they have is getting to her. She'd swear there's something in his eyes, a look of _knowing_, like he's seeing right through her. And her heart is still threatening to beat out of her chest, the fear of losing him catching up to her.

The Floo roars to life and a very groggy-looking Harry Potter sticks his head into the room. "You've used the emergency portkey?" he asks, though the answer is obvious. "How bad is it?"

"We're not certain," Draco begins, exchanging a brief glance with Hermione. Harry tells them to have a seat while he dresses and they take the two chairs opposite his desk, waiting for his return. In the quiet of the room, Draco reaches for Hermione's hands, holding them in both of his own. They don't speak, but when Hermione lifts her eyes to his face again, there is the same look—a mirror of her own.

**.**

When finally it happens, the moment is blessedly uncomplicated.

Draco and Hermione spend all night in Harry's office, giving a play-by-play of their mission up until the break-in. It will take further intelligence to determine whether they've truly been identified or just aroused general suspicion; but as the hours drag on and no one makes the slightest attempt on the Ministry's wards, Harry considers them safe in Britain.

"Get some rest," he instructs when they finally get up to leave. "Don't come in until the afternoon. And until then—"

"'Put your wards up.' We know," Hermione parrots his usual advice, giving her friend a fond smile on her way out the door. Both she and Draco go next to their adjoined offices, where they have special secure Apparition points meant to hide their true function from the rest of the Ministry.

Normally, Hermione would reach for Draco's hand, almost without thinking. _Merlin_, she wants to. But the air feels thick around them—tense. Of course they're both exhausted—one quick glance and she can see bags beginning to form under his eyes—but there's that something _else_ under there, too.

It is the longest, quietest walk from Harry's office to their own, even though it only involves two hallways and a door. Draco takes the door when they reach it, holding it open so Hermione goes first. When it closes behind him, he finds she's stopped short, facing him.

In three quick strides she is directly in front of him, reaching to grip his upper arms in both hands. Running on pure instinct, Hermione leans up to kiss him as he wraps one arm around her waist and snakes another arm up her back, pulling her closer for better access. The kiss starts off desperate but quickly morphs into something more languid, more luxurious, more _Merlin, yes—finally—perfect_.

"I mean it. I meant it. I've always meant it," Hermione whispers when they come up for air, noses still touching, breaths mingling. "I'm a very bad actress."

"Sweet witch," Draco murmurs, pressing a series of kisses to her forehead. "I meant it all too."

"I know," she says, her eyes suddenly bright. "Somehow I just know." She kisses him again. "We should probably quit our jobs. Harry—"

"Sssh," Draco covers her lips with his, stroking her hip with one hand. "First we should rest."

Hermione's processing a lot of emotions—there's elation and relief but also the exhaustion from staying up all night, the residual fear of _why_ they've been up all night in the first place. Her eyes threaten to spill over with embarrassing tears and she tightens her arms on him. "I'll sleep better if you're with me."

Draco brushes his lips along her forehead again. "Of course, pretty witch. You just lead the way."

**.**

At nearly noon, Draco wakes with Hermione in his arms. He doesn't suppress the stupid grin he feels spreading across his face, the pure joy that swells within his chest—heady, intoxicating, uncomplicated. Briefly, he studies his palm, curling his fingers inward experimentally, before he smooths his hand up along her hip, her side, her neck, and into her soft hair. He doesn't stop himself from reaching for her—not for the rest of their days.


End file.
